Meanwhile, the red corner carries a different air, not frantic, but tight with unease. Sekino himself sits composed, posture relaxed as if the last round barely touched him.

But beside him, Yuichi Sōda looks anything but calm. "That exchange…" he grumbles. "You ate just one punch to the face… and then you just let him bully you? Did that counter shake you that bad? Did it cost you your head?"

Sekino exhales, his glove brushing the line of sweat along his jaw. "It stung," he admits. "But that wasn't why. He's… good. Too good. Even in tight space he reads the punches well. He anticipated the timing and met me in the middle. I missed the rhythm, not my nerve."

A beat of silence, then Shiki leans forward. "Still… you landed body shots of your own. Don't forget that. He took some heavy blows down there. Four body shots so far. That matters."

Yuichi's jaw tightens, the annoyance curdling into resolve. "Fine. Forget that exchange. We don't expect you to win all the ten rounds after all. Just drain him. Keep the pressure, work the ribs, sabotage his legs. He used energy to steal that round. We'll take it back by taking everything else."

Sekino looks at them, calm settling back into his features. "I can keep the pace." he says. "I'll keep the left alive, keep him guessing."

"Not enough," Yuichi shakes his head. "We're still ahead on points; if you can land more body work this round, it's okay to concede another round. I don't mind you taking a punch or two. Just make him pay. Work the core, sap his breath and legs… drain him until he's begging for the bell.

Shiki nods, voice firm. "And tuck your head more. That kid's a head-hunter, remember? If you have to eat one, grit your teeth and tighten your neck…"

The referee's voice cuts across the corner. "Seconds out!"

The team slips through the ropes, but Shiki hangs back a moment, calling after Sekino as he moves away.

"Make him pay for any punch he lands. Trade it for his core every time."

Sekino slips his mouthpiece back in and gives a nod. As he turns toward the ring, his eyes shift, steady, and cold with resolve, the calm of a man who knows he's going to get hit and is ready to endure it.

Across the ring, Ryoma warms up his legs, light hops, lazy bounces, feeling the spring return to his steps, letting the heat build before he goes all out.

The bell for the fourth round rings.

He glides forward, smooth and loose. Sekino meets him head-on, no hesitation this time. He's not just claiming the center, but launching the hunt.

His left hand flicks out sharp, cutting angles, testing Ryoma's guard with textbook precision.

Dsh! Dsh!

Ryoma blocks the first, ducks under the second.

By the time Sekino's glove retracts, Ryoma's already slipped to the side, gone, floating to a new corner, still bouncing, gloves hanging low.

Sekino pivots, keeps the chase tight. But this time, Ryoma doesn't play the patient observer. He steps in quick, launching a clean one-two to interrupt the advance.

Dsh! Dsh!

Both caught on Sekino's forearm, but Ryoma's already sliding out, feet whispering over the canvas, keeping the rhythm alive.

Even when he stops, he doesn't really stop. He's still bouncing, his breathing light and his eyes sharp.

Sekino exhales through his nose, guard steady, adjusting the distance again. The tempo has changed, the hunt is no longer one-sided.

Ryoma, though finally using his legs, isn't running. Before Sekino can even close the distance, he steps in again, quick and smooth.

A sharp one-two flashes out, forcing Sekino to halt and raise his guard.

Dug, dug!

Ryoma lingers just long enough to follow with two short hooks to the body.

Sekino shifts, slipping back into his Philly Shell, rolling his shoulders.

Dug, dug!

One shot thuds against his lead shoulder, the other finds the right forearm shielding his core.

Sekino counters with a coiling right, but Ryoma's already gone, gliding out of range before the glove can even graze him.

From ringside, the commentators finally catch the change.

"There it is," one says, voice rising with excitement. "Look at that footwork… he's back to what we know!"

"Folk, Ryoma Takeda, the Cruel King, has returned!" the other adds, brimming with energy. "The bounce, the rhythm, the pressure from every angle… this is the fighter we've been waiting to see!"

The crowd begins to swell again, their cheers climbing as Ryoma moves with that familiar, merciless rhythm, cutting angles, darting in and out like a ghost.

And Sekino, the one who was supposed to hunt, is now the one cornered in the center, defending under pressure. He can block, he can slip, but every time he throws back, his gloves find nothing but air.

In the red corner, Yuichi's jaw tightens as he watches the shift in Ryoma's movement.

"So he's using his legs now, huh?" he mutters. "Fine. Let him dance. He'll burn them out soon enough… and Sekino won't give him a clean shot."

But even before the words settle, Ryoma proves otherwise.

He steps in again, gloves twitching as if to throw, and Sekino raises his guard. But then Ryoma stops mid-motion.

And Sekino, reading hesitation, snaps a jab in reply, but that's when he makes a mistake.

It was just bait, and now Ryoma slips under it, stepping in deeper, his shoulder brushing close, and drives a stiff, spearing jab into Sekino's core.

Thud!

The impact folds Sekino's midsection for a split second.

Ryoma slides his rear foot in, planting it firm, coiling his hips before whipping a low right hook.

Sekino barely pulls his left across to block. Even so, the body shot lands heavy, enough to dull his breath, enough to freeze him.

And Ryoma seizes the moment. An uppercut snaps up the center, caught on Sekino's right palm, but the next instant, a right hook cracks against his temple.

Dsh!

Sekino's head jerks sideways, balance stuttering, feet adjusting in panic before he tightens his guard again.

Ryoma presses the advantage, firing two stiff punches against the gloves, then slips low to drive another hook into the body.

Thud!

Sekino tries to answer with a chopping right, but Ryoma's already gone, sliding out of range, bouncing lightly once more.

Then he stops, the motion easing, gloves lowering as he takes a measured breath, his eyes fixed on Sekino, reading every reaction.

<< Congratulations. Two solid body blows. If he's trying to drain you, drain him right back. >>

"But I can take a break for a moment, right?"

<< Of course. No one said you have to keep bouncing forever. >>

And Sekino doesn't chase either.

He stays where he is, stance small and compact, gloves tight, elbows close, breathing steady but the pain on his sides is still there. His head's still dizzy from the hook earlier.

The air around him feels heavier now, the calm stripped of its ease. His eyes burn across the distance, anger held in check by discipline.

Both fighters stand apart, separated by nearly half the ring's width. And for the first time tonight, neither moves.

The crowd begins to murmur, confused, restless. It's an unusual sight, two boxers frozen in place, each waiting for the other to make the first mistake.

"What's going on here?" one commentator stammers. "Look at Ryoma. he's just… standing there."

"And Sekino too. He's not chasing, not even trying to fight back! He just took two shots to the body and… nothing? He's just letting it slide?"

"No," the other commentator cuts in, voice lowering. "He's trying. But he just can't. We're nearly two minutes into the fourth round, and Sekino hasn't landed a clean punch yet."

In the blue corner, the team watches in silence at first.

Kenta's grin spreads slow and wide. "Would you look at that… Sekino's just frozen up."

Hiroshi exhales through his nose, half in disbelief. "Guess he finally realized what it feels like to chase a ghost."

Nakahara says nothing for a while. His gaze follows Ryoma's still form, the relaxed shoulders, the loose bounce just waiting beneath the surface.

Then, faintly, he nods. A small smile, restrained but proud, tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"That's it," he murmured. "This rhythm isn't so bad. Let him breathe a little. No need to rush. Save the legs for when it counts."

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